


Fuzzy Divide (Dark White)

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, Community: rounds_of_kink, F/M, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Series, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The divide between devil and angel, wrong and right, black and white isn’t as defined as it should. (Post-series, alternate canon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuzzy Divide (Dark White)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Halloween 2012’s mini-round at Rounds of kink. Prompts and kinks: bedecked, taciturn / wings, masturbation. A bit far-fetched for some of them, but hopefully, it’ll do ;)

He looks at Sara and Lincoln’s fancy dress costumes and envisions those poor guys in whose ears a devil and an angel whisper advice and recommendations.

Or maybe they’re lucky guys. After all, it’s a fact that, in his case, the divide between devil and angel, wrong and right, black and white isn’t as defined as it should.

—

LJ’s Halloween party is loud, filled with people in crazy costumes, music, laughter and occasional shrieks; it’s noisy to the point that Michael can hardly hear the thoughts in his own mind anymore. The sounds pulse and beat inside his skull and reverberate in the pit of his stomach.

Lincoln and Sara know. They always know when it’s too much for him. Without having to consult one another, they flank him and lead him away, out of the party and into the dark heaven of a small room upstairs. The party still vibrates through him, but here, at least, it’s dampened, and even more cushioned when Lincoln rests a soothing hand on his back and Sara kisses him soft and sweet. Distraction. They provide distraction, something pleasant and reassuring to focus on and prevent his brain from going into spinning mode.

Lincoln is dressed up as a devil or maybe a similar shadowy character, black and severe, threatening stubble and dark glare, quiet to the point of taciturnity. Michael loves it when Linc is like that. He knows what that means later, when they get home. Lincoln won’t veer off from his too-cool-for-you attitude. He will lay Michael down on the bed and take him – _own_ him – slow and intense, willpower bordering on stubbornness and devoid of any mercy for Michael’s pleas to do it faster, harder, wilder. Not that Sara won’t encourage him, not that Michael will complain.

Sara is wearing the face and feathered wings of an angel, long white dress bedecked with tiny crystalline pearls that makes her figure glow like a celestial apparition. The dress is made of light chiffon, skimpy and too provocative for the angel she pretends to impersonate. Only the large wings draped over her back and half-covering her breasts provide a modicum of modesty. Michael burns to lift them and gaze at the barely concealed curves underneath, but Sara won’t allow it; Sara, all so-called innocent smiles and make-believe coyness, knows how to tease. Michael won’t complain about that either, and highly doubts that Lincoln would raise any protest.

She kisses him again and dances him until he’s back to chest with Lincoln, trapped between the two of them. The kind of trap he doesn’t want to escape from, ever. She whispers, “I love you,” to him, and then to Lincoln, “Hold him still for me?” and Michael can’t help smirking because, really, her angelic attire is so damn inappropriate.

Lincoln’s arms lock around him and present him like an offering to Sara. His hips and lower stomach jut forward indecently. Not much to hide with the fabric of his pants stretching over his fly, he can see it on Sara’s face, in the quick sweep of her tongue on her lips.

“Never trust an angel with red hair,” Michael jokes.

“Hey!” Sara almost sounds really indignant. She nods at Lincoln. “Mephisto here has a bad influence on me.” 

Then her hand is brushing over Michael’s crotch and going straight to his belt buckle, no niceties or subtleties, and sure enough, this sort of straight-forwardness looks like something she picked up from Lincoln. Michael doesn’t need more to feel himself hardening in his dress slacks, for his hands to shoot out and hold onto her fluffy wings. Lincoln chuckles into his neck, but it’s nice and sympathetic, in contrast with his grim costume. Lincoln has witnessed multiple times how atmospheres like tonight’s get to him, how easily he’s tipped into bliss or distress. Better it be the former, and the two of them be here to catch him, right? Right. And, as a matter of fact, he’s secure, now, barely hearing the sounds of the party above the roar of need coursing through him.

His head lolls back in abandon. Lincoln takes his lips at the same time that Sara’s fingers slip inside his pants, glide into his boxer shorts. Sara wraps a warm hand around him, and Lincoln tongues into his mouth. Lincoln grinds his own erection against the small of Michael’s back, and Sara presses her breasts against his chest. She sets the rhythm, the tempo of her caresses – fast, fast, slow, so fast, so good, so maddening – compelling the flow and staccato of Michael’s gasps, to which Lincoln reacts accordingly. His brother kisses, licks, nips, bites and soothes him following Sara’s twists and pulls. She’s imaginative; wicked; taunting; they have him panting and on the verge of release in no time, and that’s exactly when they slow down, drag it out, prolong it.

“When we get home,” Lincoln rumbles into his ear, “what do you want? Watch me with her? Or maybe she could watch us?” He winks at Sara. “Yeah, maybe she should watch us. You know how much she likes it.”

Michael gets a vicious upstroke for Lincoln’s quip, which is unfair yet sends electrical sparks throughout his body. Or perhaps it sends electrical sparks throughout his body _because_ it’s unfair. Being at the core of their attention and rivalry, faked or real, is always a special brand of interesting.

He’s wearing a black and white suit; black on the left side, white on the right. When they arrived earlier tonight, LJ’s girlfriend tilted her head, looked at him and then at Sara in her less-than-holy angel’s outfit, and concluded, “I don’t think you can trust her to drag you to the good side, Michael.” He didn’t reply and smiled secretively. The young woman doesn’t know the half of it about Sara, and it’s for the best that she doesn’t even start thinking about what Lincoln brings to the equation.

Sara rises up on her toes and reaches for them, pressing her mouth against theirs, into their kiss. It’s sloppy and possessive, assertive. If the way Lincoln bucks against Michael’s ass means anything, Linc likes it as much as Michael does. Best worst angel ever.

She dives deeper into his pants. She hasn’t freed him from his clothes, purposefully so, that’s for sure. The way she looks at him through her lashes when he grunts in frustration and rubs himself against the heel of her hand, she has to know what she’s doing. She also has to know that at some point, he’s going to ruffle her feathers and fuck her into next week – and Lincoln will be next.

Yes, Michael knows precisely what he wants when they get home. The picture in his mind is crystal clear.

Associated with the warm cocoon of Lincoln and Sara’s bodies and ministrations, the mental image is all it takes. He comes into Sara’s hand, staining her fingers and his once-crisp boxer shorts. He doesn’t bother warning her; he has lost his voice and the words for anything more than gasping and groaning anyway. She holds him, holds him in the palm of her hand and against her, all the time he shudders through his release and its aftershock, all the time Lincoln strokes his hip, kisses his neck and sucks onto his pulse.

He relies on Lincoln to keep him standing. Finding his breath again, he can only count on himself and it takes a couple of minutes.

“I want you both.” His voice is low, still rough with pleasure. He smiles a little bit because either his tone or his words, perhaps both, drive them even tighter against him – he didn’t think it was possible. “When we get home, I want you both.”

Later, he’s spread across their bed with Sara’s very ruffled feathers tickling his chest and Lincoln’s stubble chaffing his shoulder blades. He can’t spot any clear divide between the fluffiness of her touch and the rougher sensation of Lincoln’s. Purity of the feelings, wrongness of the way they share them. The pleasure is dark white; the love, the completion, the serenity too. 

END


End file.
